


sunday candy

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: Draymond sidles up to him, a shit-eating grin on his face.“Dude,” he says, slinging a casual arm over Klay’s shoulder. “I think Steph’s a virgin.”





	sunday candy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Sunday candy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126459) by [Constance_JUN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Constance_JUN/pseuds/Constance_JUN)



> title from the song by Chance the Rapper. 
> 
> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it. 
> 
> this is set during the Warriors' 2013-2014 season.

Predictably, the whole thing is Draymond’s fault. Pre-season has just started, and Coach Jackson is serious, pushing them hard, since they made it to the second round of the playoffs last year, the Western Conference Finals so painfully close. They’re standing around getting filmed for those awkward promo shots CSN uses. Klay’s already spent about twenty minutes palming a basketball, looking into a camera and failing to be intimidating before the poor production assistant gave up on him. So now he’s just standing around, waiting to be called for the group shots. 

That’s when Draymond sidles up to him, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Dude,” he says, slinging a casual arm over Klay’s shoulder. “I think Steph’s a virgin.”

Klay has never been more grateful for his natural deadpan. Even so, he can feel his whole body flushing, his thoughts racing a hundred inappropriate places before he can marshal them back under control. 

“What?” he asks, finally, because Draymond seems to expect some kind of answer. 

“I know,” Draymond says. “You’d think between college and the fucking NBA he’d have been able to get his dick wet, but he’s gotta be purity-ringed up or something.”

Klay’s body is running hot and cold. He needs to go, do something: jerk off, wipe his memory, anything but spend the rest of his life obsessing about this. 

“Purity-ringed up,” he repeats, in what he hopes is a dry voice.

“Look,” Draymond says, spinning them around to look at where Steph is still filming. “That girl over there wants to fuck him really badly. And he’s just, I mean look at him.” 

Klay looks. He’s always looking, honestly, and to him Steph doesn’t seem different. He’s in his uniform, crisp white. Over the summer, he started trying to grow a beard and there’s a ghost of one on his chin now. His arms look good, strong. He’s put on some muscle. His cheeks are a little flushed, the same production assistant who gave up on Klay leaning in towards Steph. Klay can’t bring himself to blame her. Steph looks over at them, raises one eyebrow, bites his lip.

“See?” Draymond says, as though this proves something. 

“Sure,” Klay says, slipping out from under Dray’s arm, anything to end the conversation before – before things get a lot worse. “By the way, where’s the bathroom?” 

“Back there,” Dray says. 

As Klay’s walking away, careful, stiff-legged, he can hear Draymond calling, “Harrison, Harrison, get over here.”

Fuck.

\---

Klay’s goals for the season are pretty simple: Win fifty games. Make it to the Western Conference Finals. Shoot better than forty percent from three again. Get over Steph Curry.

It’s been two years; every minute of Klay’s time in the NBA has been spent with Steph, it feels like. In his shadow, illuminated by his light, sweating side by side during practice. Switching onto his man during games. Watching him pull his jersey off after games, eating popcorn shirtless next to his locker. 

It’s a crush. Just a crush. Like the world asked Klay, _Do you want to be him or fuck him?_ and Klay was like, _Why not both?_

Except it hasn’t gone away. And Klay doesn’t want to be him. He likes his life: his house in the hills, his dog, the little bubble of quiet he surrounds himself with. And if he doesn't like his game yet, he likes what it’s becoming. His pull-up three, his defense. 

Over the summer, Klay had made up his mind. No more pining, no more looking over at him on the plane while he’s asleep, no more losing to him at poker on purpose, no more coming up with reasons to text him. No more imagining – anything, everything, the stupid sappy shit that makes his chest ache in the middle of the night. 

They’re in the locker room after their first game, and getting over Steph has never seemed more impossible. Klay’s at his locker, checking his texts. They’re all from his dad, who is the only person who watches his pre-season games. 

_Watch your footwork,on defense_ the first one reads. Then there’s two pictures of Rocco with his mom on the beach from last month and another text that says _PROUD of you...this is gonna be ur YEAR_

__Klay sends back a thumbs up emoji to him, and a heart emoji and a dog head emoji to his thread with his mom and dad. Steph flops down in a chair next to Klay’s locker, his skin wet from the shower, dressed in his street clothes._ _

__“What’s up?” Steph asks, leaning back to meet Klay’s eyes. Klay follows the stretch of his neck, corded muscle and bared throat._ _

__“My dad thinks I’m gonna be the MVP this year,” Klay says._ _

__“Didn’t he think that last year?” Steph asks, sly smile._ _

__“Obviously,” Klay says. “I was robbed.”_ _

__“Well then, MVP,” Steph says, “do you wanna go get dinner?”_ _

__“You’re buying,” Klay tells him, stuffing the rest of his shit into his bag, when Barnes shows up._ _

__“Dray and I think we should take Iguodala out,” he says. “To celebrate his first game.”_ _

__Steph shoots a look over at Klay, his dark eyes apologetic. Klay shrugs. Steph takes being a co-captain seriously, and David Lee’s already dressed up and gone home to his adult life._ _

__“Sure thing,” Steph says, “where’re you thinking?”_ _

____

\---

It’s a perfectly-executed trap. Draymond and Barnes bide their time, until everyone’s had a couple drinks. Barnes keeps looking down at his phone, but Klay doesn’t think anything of it, until a woman shows up. She’s over-dressed for the bar they’re at, high heels, nice dress.

“Harrison,” she says, kissing his cheek. Klay raises his eyebrows across the table at Draymond, who usually would be giving Barnes so much shit for this, but he has a smirk on his face that has nothing to do with whatever bullshit HB is on. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” she asks. Her name is Sarai, and she knows Barnes from college, apparently. Klay gives her an upward nod when he’s introduced. He doesn’t like strangers, and he really doesn’t like the look Draymond and Barnes shared when Steph got introduced. 

“I’m gonna get more drinks,” Klay says. “Steph, wanna come with?” 

“Steph’s too important to be fetching our drinks,” Draymond says. “Iguodala, go with him.”

“Then you’re buying,” Andre says. Draymond hands over his wallet and waves them off, and Klay can’t help looking back over his shoulder as Sarai leans in close to Steph, her lips almost touching his ear, while Barnes and Draymond look on with matching smirks. 

“He always like that?” Iguodala asks. 

“Yeah,” Klay says, distracted. “That’s Dray.” 

When they come back with another round, Steph’s gone, and so is the girl. 

Draymond takes a beer and raises it in a toast. “To Young Stephen, becoming a man at last.” 

Barnes grabs one as well, clicking it with Draymond’s. 

“What did you do,” Klay asks, voice flat. 

“It’s what Steph is doing,” Draymond says, laughing at his own joke. 

“Hey,” Barnes says, “be cool, Thompson. She’s great.” 

Klay looks down at his phone and sends Steph a text: _Got you a drink lmk if u want it_

An excruciating minute later, Steph texts back _Thanks_

When Steph returns, he’s alone.

“Where’s Sarai?” Draymond asks. 

“Oh,” Steph says, “she has a big case coming up she needed to prep for, she had to go.” He takes a sip of his beer. The tips of his ears are pink. 

“Jesus,” Draymond says. “Come on, man.”

“What?” Steph asks, his eyes darting from Draymond and Harrison to Klay, and then to Iguodala, who’s looking on, a bemused expression on his face.

“I can’t believe Dray was right,” Barnes says. “You actually are a virgin, aren’t you?”

Steph goes absolutely still, and for just a second his eyes dart over towards Klay. His shoulders slump in, imperceptibly. 

“I’m gonna,” he says, before his voice breaks, and he turns and walks away.

“Well, shit,” Draymond says.

\---

Klay finds Steph sitting on the concrete back steps of the bar, looking out over the parking lot. A couple disinterested women are smoking, in a golden pool of light but otherwise they’re alone.

Klay sits down next to Steph and takes a couple deep breaths, the salt tang of the Bay and the musk of tobacco smoke. 

“Virginity’s a social construct,” he says, and Steph makes a sound that could almost be a laugh.

“I knew you were gonna come out here and say some,” Steph waves a hand, “cryptic and unhelpful comment.” 

Klay shrugs. “It’s not important.” Next to him, he can hear Steph’s snort and he edits himself. “It doesn’t matter. It’s like, admirable.” He looks down at his feet and kicks at a chunk of asphalt that’s come loose. “You know, living by your principles and listening to Jesus and shit.”

That does make Steph laugh, honest and real. “They should send you to Sunday schools.” 

“I’d kill it,” Klay says. “It would be the end of teen pregnancy.” 

They sit there in silence for a second. Steph’s arms are wrapped around his knees, his chin tucked on top of them. Klay deliberately lets his legs fall wide so that his knee bumps Steph’s. Steph uncurls a little into the contact. 

“It’s not like I think it’s bad,” Steph says, “or that I don’t want to.” That makes Klay’s heart jump, his pulse beating triple-time, but he pushes it down. “There was just never the right person at the right time.” Klay stays quiet, pressing his knee a little more into Steph’s.

“It is important, to me,” Steph says, quiet. He’s looking at his feet. 

“Yeah,” Klay says. “That’s like. It should be.” Klay lost his virginity, drunk, after junior prom to this guy in his pre-calc class, Adam Peterson, in his parents’ pool house. Then Adam spent the rest of the year pretending it didn’t happen. It doesn’t bother him, anymore, but that doesn’t mean Steph should have to go through that. Not that anyone could help but want to keep hold of Steph, cherish him. 

“Plus I think I’d die if my parents ended up reading some blind item in Deadspin or whatever,” Steph says, trying a laugh. 

“It should be someone you trust,” Klay says.

“Yeah,” Steph says, finally looking back at Klay, his eyes dark and wide. “That’s how I feel.”

“You don’t have to love them, just like.” Klay runs a hand over his face, suddenly unable to withstand Steph’s regard, his half-parted lips, the vulnerability of him. “Anyway.”

They’re silent for a long moment, and then Steph rocks into Klay’s side so they’re pressed close. 

“Anyway, what?” 

“What?” Klay asks.

“I know it messes with your mystique to finish a sentence,” Steph says, “but don’t leave me in suspense here.”

“Just because you’re co-captain, doesn’t mean you have to hang out with those fools,” Klay says. “Stick with me, I’ll take care of you.”

“Oh,” Steph says, soft, surprised. “That’s, yeah. I’d like that.” 

Klay didn’t mean to be so sincere, can’t handle Steph’s answer. He pushes himself to his feet, but then Steph’s just sitting on his feet, and it must be a trick of the half-light, the way Steph is gazing up at him. He reaches down to give Steph a hand up, and Steph lets Klay take his weight, pull him all the way up, his biceps straining a little from it. Momentum carries Steph forward, so close to Klay that Steph puts his hands up, just hovering over Klay’s chest. He’s looking up at Klay, the few inches height difference between them suddenly significant.

Steph licks his lips. His eyes are like the ocean at night. Klay looks back, helpless, his hand somehow resting just above Steph’s hip, to steady him.

“We should go back in,” Klay says, finally, voice unsteady.

“Yeah,” Steph says, looking down and stepping back. There’s a half-smile on his face. “Can’t let them get any ideas.” 

“Yeah,” Klay says, agreeing without really understanding.

\---

Draymond seems to drop it after that; Coach Jackson is working them into the ground, and even Dray doesn’t have the energy for bullshit with two-a-days plus video sessions and strength training. Steph always saves Klay a spot next to him at lunch, brings him the blue Gatorade after they do weights, standing close to Klay even though Klay’s disgusting, shirt soaked through with sweat, a fine tremor in his arms.

Klay barely can walk Rocco in the evenings before he drops into bed. But he can’t sleep. His shoulders ache, his quads are killing him and every time he rolls over a new group of muscles decide to start hurting, just like the start of every season. 

It’s his mind he can’t get quiet. He thinks about Steph. About his slumped shoulders that night in the parking lot, about how he said _the right person_ not _the right girl_. About getting In-N-Out with Steph after practice, the two of them in his car, Steph licking salt off of his fingers. How if Klay touched him, pushed him up against the wall and kissed him, sucked him off, he’d be the first one, the only one, Steph ever gave it up to.

He thinks about what an awful friend he is, after he wipes his hand off. How much Steph would hate him if he knew how Klay thought about him. 

He doesn’t sleep much.

\---

Their first away game of the season is in Los Angeles; a fractious loss against the Clippers at the start of a ten-day road trip. After the game, they have the night off. Klay wants to lose himself in the city, the comfort of the low-lying hills and the interlaced freeways, to find a dirty club somewhere off Sunset, as far from the bright lights of the court as possible.

Of course, it doesn’t work out like that. He’s texting with his parents, trying to get out of meeting up with them after the game without seeming too much like a terrible son, when Draymond sits down next to him.

“No,” Klay says, without looking up. “Whatever you want, absolutely not.” 

“I think we should take Virgin Mary out,” Draymond says, predictably ignoring Klay, and nodding over towards Steph, who is sitting at his locker with a towel draped over his head. And no shirt. Klay looks back at his phone.

“That’s not chill,” Klay says, texting, _I kinda want an early night, sorry_ and slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“I just think he should loosen up a little,” Dray says. “Blow off some steam.” Klay looks over and Draymond manages, somehow, to waggle his hips suggestively while sprawled over a chair. “Work out all that frustration.”

Klay’s eyes dart helplessly back towards Steph. He’s pulling his jeans on, angling his hips a little to get them over his ass. Klay gets lost for a second looking at the jut of Steph’s hip bones, the v of muscle, and thin trail of hair. Steph pulls a shirt on and Klay looks away before Steph can catch him looking. 

“No,” Klay says, more earnestly than he intends. 

“Oh, so it’s like that,” Draymond says, smirking at Klay. Klay gives Dray his blankest look back, but Draymond’s grin just gets bigger. “Tell you what, if you can swipe his v-card I’ll give you a thousand–” 

Klay gets up and walks out of the locker room so he won’t hit Draymond. He rests his head against the cold concrete, breathing in the damp musty smell. Draymond doesn’t mean anything by it, he knows. He just. Saw a weakness in Klay and couldn’t help going for it. It’s fine, Klay can compensate. He can deal with this.

“Klay?” Steph says. 

“Hi,” Klay says, not turning around. 

“Communing with the tunnel?” Steph asks, a smile in his voice.

“It’s always been a good friend to me,” Klay says, giving himself one more second before he turns to face Steph, who looks soft after his shower, impossibly handsome. “What’s up?” 

“You going out?” Steph asks. “I think some of the guys were gonna head to the west side?” 

“No,” Klay says, scrubbing his face with his hand. “I, uh. No.” 

“Want to head back to the hotel and play Smash or something?” Steph asks. 

The only thing Klay wants less than being at a club with Draymond, Harrison and Steph is spending the night in a hotel room with Steph, lying next to each other on top of the bed, playing video games with their elbows brushing. 

But imagining Draymond pushing Steph towards some impossibly beautiful girl or boy, and Steph’s discomfort, or worse, of Steph going, letting himself be pulled in, his hips moving fluidly against a stranger’s: that’s the worst thing of all.

“Let’s do it,” Klay says.

\---

They end up in Klay’s room, where some long-suffering concierge brings them a Wii, Hot Cheetos (Klay’s) and popcorn (Steph’s).

“If Coach finds out, he’ll murder me,” Klay says, opening the bag.

“Make sure to wash your hands, then,” Steph says. Klay licks his fingers, showily. Steph drops his controller on the ground. 

“What do you think is the weirdest shit they’ve ever brought someone?” Steph asks, after a long few seconds, shaking his head as if to clear it. 

“I’d say like, ten hookers, or whatever, but I bet it’s actually bringing us video games.” 

“Are you saying we aren’t cool, Thompson?” Steph asks, picking Jigglypuff, Jesus Christ, and stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“I’m extremely cool,” Klay says, picking Pikachu, because he has self-respect. “I turned down invitations from my parents, several high school friends and Draymond Green to be here.” 

The match starts and they’re both quiet for a little bit, Klay concentrating on kicking Steph’s ass. He’s better than Steph, but the heat of Steph’s body and the clean, post-game smell of him distract Klay enough that he has a decent handicap. 

“Did Draymond say anything to you?” Steph asks, after he’s lost. He’s rolled onto his back and is throwing popcorn into his mouth one kernel at a time. 

Klay shrugs and Steph groans, shutting his eyes. Klay watches the tendons of his neck stretch, the shadow of stubble under his chin where he needs to shave. “No one takes my threats seriously.” 

“He still bothering you?” Klay asks. Steph doesn’t answer, but his mouth goes tight for a second; so, yes. “Is that why you’re growing the beard?” Klay tries to joke. “To look scarier?” 

“Hey,” Steph says, kicking out at Klay, not very effectively. “I’m extremely scary.” 

“I know,” Klay says. No one could share a backcourt with Steph and not be a little afraid of him, like he’s an angel out of the Old Testament, capable of leaving ruin in his wake. “Give it a few years and everyone else’ll be terrified too.” 

Steph goes quiet for a second. “Thanks,” he says, finally.

“It’s just the truth,” Klay says, suddenly bashful. 

They play a few more games, Klay’s limbs pleasantly sore after the game, the frustration leaching from him. He lets himself lean into the warmth of Steph’s body, their shoulders and hips touching, arms brushing against each other as they play. Klay loses the last game, his reaction time shot, his entire brain too busy lighting up with the smooth slide of skin.

“I should prolly go to bed,” Klay says, rolling off the bed and onto the floor with a thud, to keep himself from just curling up next to Steph until the next morning. He pulls off his shirt and throws it vaguely in the direction of his suitcase, leaving Hot Cheeto fingerprints on it, then wriggles out of his jeans. Sighing, he levers himself up to go wash his hands and brush his teeth, even as part of him thinks just lying there on the floor for the rest of the night would be fine. Less work. 

Steph makes a weird choking sound when Klay’s bent over the sink, brushing his teeth. Klay turns, toothbrush in his mouth, really wishing Steph wasn’t lying on his bed, looking rumpled, watching Klay with wide eyes, while Klay is wearing a pair of boxers with pictures of bulldogs on them.

“What?” Klay asks around his toothbrush. 

“Um,” Steph says. He can’t maintain eye contact with Klay, looking at Klay’s face, then down at his own hands before his gaze slides up to Klay’s chest. “How did you know you were ready?” 

“Ready for – oh.” Klay feels his jaw go slack. Toothpaste drips out of his mouth and Steph cracks up. 

“Fuck off,” Klay says. He goes back to the sink to rinse and spit; meets his own eyes in the mirror. _Keep it together, idiot,_ he tells himself. He sets his expression carefully blank before he sits down on the bed again next to Steph. They’re side by side but not touching, and Klay pulls the comforter up into his lap, just in case his dick gets any ideas. Steph doesn’t need to see that. 

“I didn’t, I guess,” Klay says, watching Steph out of the corner of his eyes. “I was drunk and horny and I just wanted to. I didn’t like, think through the implications.” 

“Shooters shoot,” Steph says, and his voice is almost dry.

“Something like that,” Klay says. He wonders what Draymond has said to Steph, if he’s hassling him or trying to set him up with someone in particular. “Why?”

Steph kisses him, quick and hard. Klay’s heart goes supernova in his chest, white-hot and radiating out. He reaches up, blindly grabbing Steph’s arms and when Steph opens his mouth Klay chases the velvet heat of it until Steph pulls back. 

“I think I’m ready,” Steph says. He’s looking at Klay, a little dazed. Klay’s equally caught up, in Steph’s eyes, the pupils wide, in the breadth of his shoulders pulling his t-shirt tight, in the firm curves of his arms. Fuck, his fucking mouth.

“I don’t know what they taught y’all in the South,” Klay says, “but gay sex takes like, some warm up. I can’t just put it in. Not that I would, I mean you could, but. Either way.” Klay makes himself stop talking with supreme effort. He’s usually smarter than this but he can’t stop thinking about it, Steph underneath him getting fucked, or riding Steph, his chest heaving. Or. Part of him is ready to call room service and have them bring him some lube. 

“I did sex ed in Canada,” Steph says, blushing.

“Oh,” Klay says, momentarily overcome by the color in Steph’s cheeks, the way he’s biting his lips. “Very progressive.” 

“Yeah,” Steph says, going even pinker, continually running his plush lower lip between his teeth. “Mom was kinda shocked.” 

“Well.” Klay can’t think beyond the haze of his arousal. He kisses Steph again, their noses bumping before Steph tilts his head a little more. Klay has a hand on the back of Steph’s head, his other hand clutching tight to the top of Steph’s thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. It might be. With every heartbeat he’s further gone, giving himself over to the heat growing in him. 

When they break apart again, Steph’s halfway in Klay’s lap. “Not on the road,” Klay says. “Is what. I was trying to say.” He’s breathing harder than he was during the fourth quarter. 

Steph nods, eyes wide, and Klay can feel his pulse beating rabbit-quick through his skin. Under his flush, his skin looks pale. “You can change your mind,” Klay says, “whenever, you know?”

“I know,” Steph says, biting his slick lower lip. He kisses Klay again, just a press of lips, like he’s gathering himself. “I should go, then.” His voice rises, not quite a question.

“It’s late,” Klay says, meaning, stay with me, let’s make out until our lips hurt, we don’t have to get off, just sleep next to me. 

“See you around?” Steph says, untangling himself from Klay. 

“Yeah,” Klay says. “Night.” 

“Sleep well,” Steph says, from the door. He runs a hand over his mouth, still looking dazed. Klay can tell he’s hard in his jeans.

As soon as the door shuts, Klay shoves a hand down his boxers, jerks himself off hard and fast, mind full of disjointed images, the sheets smelling like Steph.

\---

They fly out the next morning for Philadelphia. It’s not that early a flight, but the guys who went out look like they’re suffering. Klay feels smug until Harrison slumps down in the seat next to him, sunglasses on, double-fisting coconut water and Gatorade.

“Don’t throw up on me,” Klay warns. Harrison elbows him and then winces. Steph’s coming down the aisle, and when he sees Harrison and Klay imagines his easy smile falters for a second. Klay wants to apologize to him, but what is there to apologize for? Just because Steph wants to fuck him, or wanted to last night, doesn’t mean he wants to be with Klay every minute of the day. Even if Klay wants that, wants the quiet companionship or the stupid pranks, wants to steal his PB&J mid-flight. A lot of people have wanted to fuck Klay; none of them have been in love with him. 

Harrison manages not to throw up, but he does wince spectacularly while Coach Jackson yells at them all for being irresponsible. Klay tunes it out. He’s thinking about Steph. About kissing him on a hotel bed. If anyone’s ever gotten a hand on his dick before, or if Klay will be the first one. If Klay can make him laugh in bed, flash his perfect smile while Klay takes him apart.

“Hey HB, move it,” Draymond says. Harrison startles next to Klay and reluctantly goes, taking his Gatorade with him.

“He’s a mess,” Draymond says, admiringly, sitting down next to Klay. Klay looks out the window at the empty desert below them. He takes a breath of the recycled air, then another.

“I’m sorry,” Draymond says, voice surprisingly soft, barely loud enough to be heard over the drone of the airplane’s engines. “I was out of line yesterday.”

Klay nods, acknowledging. 

“I wasn’t wrong,” Draymond says, grinning his irrepressible grin, and Klay has to laugh, just a little bit. “But still.” 

“We’re cool,” Klay says. 

“I am right, though,” Draymond says, leaning in. Klay gives him a deliberately blank look back, which only provokes Draymond to stand up and yell, “Curry, get up here.”

“Shut up, Draymond,” someone, Bogut from the sound of it, yells back, which only provokes Draymond to give a wolf whistle. Harrison groans.

Steph comes forward, looking resigned. “Yeah?”

“Klay wants you,” Draymond says, cracking up. Klay wishes he could kick him. 

“Not funny,” Steph says. “C’mon Dray, drop it.” 

“It’s a little funny,” Draymond says to Steph, before clapping him on the back and walking away. 

“He took my seat,” Steph says, shaking his head. 

“You might as well sit down,” Klay tells him, as if his heart isn’t beating faster than it should. 

“He was such a good rookie,” Steph says, sitting. “What happened?” He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No, he wasn’t,” Klay says. “He was always like this.” Steph laughs, lighting up the rest of the way, soft crinkles coming in around his eyes. He relaxes back into the seat.

“He was,” Steph says. “God bless.” 

They’re both lapse into silence. Klay sneaks a look at Steph, but their eyes catch. Steph is still smiling, but he ducks his head, biting his lip.

“Want to watch something?” Klay asks, desperately.

“Yeah, sure,” Steph says, quick, words tripping over each other. 

They end up leaning over Klay’s iPad together, sharing a pair of headphones, their temples nearly touching. Klay can’t pay attention to anything but the soft promise of Steph’s proximity. He clenches his fingers tight to keep from reaching out.

\---

Klay is just settling down for his pre-game nap when his phone buzzes. It’s Steph.

_Can we talk?_

_Sure_ Klay texts. _Not my naptime yet i’ll come to ur room?_ Steph’s room seems like less dangerous, more chaste territory. 

It’s not. When Steph answers the door, he’s wearing a Davidson t-shirt, two sizes too small, worn thin from the wash, and a pair of black briefs. Klay’s mouth goes dry and the ember of desire he always feels for Steph flares hot and bright. 

“Hey,” Steph says. He’s gripping the door tight with one hand, his other twisting and untwisting the hem of his shirt. 

“Hey,” Klay says, stepping into the room and into Steph’s face. The door closes with a thud behind him and then it’s silent except for the whirr of the air conditioning.

“Do you wanna,” Steph begins, then stops. He bites his lips. Fuck. Klay looks around the room, anything to keep from staring at Steph’s mouth and his wide eyes, his collarbone under the stretched-out neck of his shirt, the strength of his shoulders. 

Steph’s bed is unmade, rumpled. On the side table, there’s a plastic bag from CVS. 

Steph follows his gaze and blushes dark. “Draymond,” he says, then stops. 

Klay has to turn his head away and shut his eyes to control himself. So that’s what this is. He’s just – Klay lets out a harsh exhale. 

“We can’t have sex before a game,” Klay says, and his voice barely shakes. Honestly, they probably could. Klay could let Steph fuck him and manage to drop 20. But Klay’s not ready, his armor failing him. He’s terrified that once he gives Steph what he wants, Steph will be done with him, will fade easily back into being his teammate and friend. 

“Once we get back home, then we’ll,” Klay cuts off. It’s impossible for him to say around the constriction in his chest. He’s selfish, wants to drink up every drop of Steph he can before that happens. 

“But,” Steph says. He reaches out and just touches Klay’s shoulder. The touch feels better than anything that simple should, electric. “Before games, sometimes I,” his voice trails off and he looks up at Klay. He’s smiling, full, a little embarrassed but so open and honest. He can’t even say _masturbate_ to the guy he’s asking to buddy fuck him. 

“Jerk off?” Klay says, with his best attempt at a smirk. 

“Shut up,” Steph says, laughing. “Fine, yes.” 

It’s a bad idea, kissing Steph. Steph’s only doing this because Draymond’s been winding him up and Klay’s right here, the easy option, always waiting for Steph to make a pass or make the play. Klay does it anyway, kisses Steph on his laughing mouth and Steph melts into him. Steph’s arms are around him, his head tilted leaned back, their chests and hips and thighs pressed close. Klay nips at Steph’s neck and Steph clutches at him. Klay does it again and it makes Steph shudder.

They end up on Steph’s bed, Klay still mostly dressed, sitting up with his back to the wall. Steph is draped over his lap, his head lolling back onto Klay’s shoulder, his legs splayed out between Klay’s. His shirt is pushed up and his underwear is somewhere on the floor. He’s impossibly beautiful in the afternoon light, When Klay gets a hand on Steph’s dick, already hard, leaking, Steph makes an impossible noise and presses his face into Klay’s neck. 

Klay strokes him carefully, Steph’s hands clenching and unclenching on nothing, his hips working erratically. His lips are slack against Klay’s neck, almost but not quite a kiss. 

“Klay,” Steph gasps out, when Klay takes his hand off Steph’s dick. Klay licks his hand and Steph pushes his whole body back into Klay, desperately. 

“It’s ok,” Klay says, his left hand holding Steph’s hip in place. He starts working Steph again, firmer this time. “I got you.” 

“Klay,” Steph says, reaching up and grabbing Klay’s head, trying to turn him for a kiss. It’s a terrible angle, more teeth than anything else, but Steph gasps into it, pushing his hips up and up, begging wordlessly, and comes.

“Fuck,” Klay says. He’s so hard he feels light-headed, his own hips pushing up against Steph’s, desperate for a little friction through his sweatpants. 

Steph is lying in his arms, panting and looking up at the ceiling, running a hand through the come on his stomach. Klay shifts him a little to one side, and he flops over easily. Klay slides his sweatpants halfway down. Steph is lying pressed against his side, smiling up at him dreamily. Klay reaches for Steph’s hand, covered in his come, and puts it on his dick, wrapping his own hand around it. It feels so overwhelmingly good, Steph’s callouses, his grip too gentle at first but then, when Klay squeezes down on him, it’s just right and Klay loses himself to the pooling heat in his gut and comes.

“Wow,” Steph says, dazed. 

“Wow,” Klay agrees, and they drop off to sleep like that, tangled in each other.

\---

Predictably, they win the game, but Klay doesn’t play well. His limbs feel too loose; a hand job shouldn’t leave him feeling this kind of post-coital laxity, but here he is. During time outs, he drinks his Gatorade and pretends to listen, but his mind can’t hold onto what Coach is saying.

He keeps looking over at Steph on the other side of the huddle. Steph catches his eye and then looks away, popping his mouth guard out, hollowing his cheeks around it before popping it back in with his tongue. He doesn’t seem to realize what he’s doing. Draymond smirks at them both, and Klay feels like his ribs are collapsing in on themselves. 

Out of the timeout, he fucks up his defensive assignment. Lee claps an arm around his shoulders, says something encouraging to him, but Klay can barely hear him. There’s a dull roar in his mind. 

Coach pulls him at the end of the third, and he sits on the bench, hunched in on himself. Iguodala and Bogut have a conversation over his head about watches. On the court, Steph sinks a three, shimmies and laughs, delighted. Klay looks down at his hands.

\---

They fly to Minnesota that night, after the game. The plane is dark and quiet, the lights off, most of the guys trying to get some sleep. He’s sitting at the back of the plane, Iguodala in the window seat next to him, fast asleep. Klay can’t. He cues up a playlist, but he’s skipping songs after ten seconds, unable to settle on anything.

Finally, giving up, he stands, wanting to stretch his legs and take a piss. Walking past his sleeping teammates, he hears his name, barely audible over the engine’s hum. He stops short.

“...talk to him,” Lee says. “I tried during the game, but I think it’ll be better coming from you.” 

“It’s just one game,” Steph says, “and he had some great plays, like that one in the third –” 

God, Klay should not be listening to this. He feels hulking and obvious, just feet from where Lee and Steph are sitting. He should turn around, but instead he crouches down in the aisle. Next to him, Barnes is snoring quietly. 

“You two are the future of this team,” Lee says, with his usual gentle calm. “You need to be able to be honest with him.” 

“I am honest with him,” Steph says. “I trust him more than anyone.” 

It’s all Klay can stand to hear. He stands, silently, and walks back to his seat, collapsing into it, gravity suddenly feeling like too much to withstand. It’s Steph through and through: the quick and clean kill shot. What did Klay say that night, outside the bar? _You don’t have to love them, they just have to be someone you can trust._

Klay is quiet, trustworthy, good in bed. Steph is beautiful, horny, done waiting for the right person. There isn’t anything else, he knew there wasn’t. He was stupid to hope that this was ever anything more to Steph. He can’t swallow, it feels like there’s a knife in the back of his throat. On the court, Steph’s ruthless under his smile. Why would this be any different? He’s a means to an end. Klay shuts his eyes, but he can still see Steph looking at him, golden, precious, his for just a few days.

\---

After practice the next day, Klay sticks around the practice facility, shooting threes. In his peripheral vision, he can see Lee talking to Steph again. Steph nods, squares his shoulders and walks over towards Klay. Klay grabs another ball from the rack and shoots again, high smooth arc off his fingers. It bounces off the rim.

“Close,” Steph says, grabbing a ball of his own and shooting. It goes in. 

Klay’s eyes feel gritty from lack of sleep. He reaches for another ball, but Steph reaches out faster, his hand resting lightly on Klay’s wrist. Klay goes still like a hunted animal.

“David wants me to talk to you about last game,” Steph says. “Coach does too.” 

Klay nods. He should move his hand away from Steph, but he doesn’t. Steph smiles at him, generous, a little conspiratorial. 

“It’s not about what we did?” he asks. His cheeks are a little flushed. And oh, Klay could end it right now, could say, actually, yeah, it’s bad for his game, fucking around. No hard feelings. And that would be it, Steph would step back and Klay could go back to trying to get over him.

“Nah,” Klay says. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve fucked around before a game.” Flat, nearly inflectionless. Steph blushes darker. 

“Oh,” Steph says. He moves his hand away from Klay’s wrist and Klay feels bereft. “So tonight we could?” 

“Talk about my game?” Klay asks, the corner of his mouth curling up despite himself. “Yeah, sure.” 

Steph laughs, head thrown back. “We’re gonna talk about it now, too. You looked terrible off the dribble last night.” 

“Fine,” Klay says, running his hand absently across his wrist, where Steph’s had rested. “Let’s see if you can stop me then.” 

Steph throws a ball at him, chest high, hard. “You’re on.”

\---

They stay at the practice facility until a beleaguered assistant coach comes to tell them they’re turning off the lights soon. They ride back to the team hotel together, sweat cooling on their skin, and Klay can’t help but feel better. The only thing better than testing himself against Steph is playing with him.

They end up getting room service in Steph’s room, sitting on the floor in their sweaty practice clothes and watching SportsCenter. Klay’s dog sitter FaceTimes so that Klay can say hi to Rocco, and Steph joins in, leaning against Klay’s shoulder and talking nonsense.

“Be good,” Klay tells Rocco before he hangs up. “I’ll be home before you know it.” Rocco huffs and then tries to lick his own butt. “Love you too,” Klay says, hanging up. 

Steph is looking at him, softly. “It was nice saying hi to Rocco,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Klay says, feeling self-conscious. “I think he likes it. I feel bad leaving him, you know?”

“I’m sure he does,” Steph says. He knocks his head against Klay’s shoulder. “How could he not like seeing your dumb face?” 

“Whatever,” Klay doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, about Rocco and home. Home, where he’s going to take Steph to bed, lose him forever. God. “Want to take a shower?”

Steph’s eyes go wide. He swallows once, twice, and licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says.

\---

Klay has spent his entire professional career not looking at Steph Curry in the shower. What a waste. Klay can’t stop running his hands up and down Steph’s arms, his ribs, his perfectly defined abs. Water gets into his eyes and so he shuts them and kisses Steph, pressing him up against the cold tile. Steph seems similarly entranced, his hands sliding down the plane of Klay’s back, picking out the notches in his spine. They pause, though, at the base of his spine, rubbing in circles. Steph’s broken the kiss and is pressing his face into Klay’s neck, to keep it out of the spray of the shower.

“You can,” Klay says, “I like it.” 

Steph nods into his Klay’s neck but doesn’t move his hands until Klay kisses the top of Steph’s head. It’s only safe way to show Steph some fraction of the desperation and tenderness he’s feeling. The shower is steaming up and the whole world seems to be contained within and around them. 

Steph’s hands slide slowly down, gripping Klay’s ass. Klay grinds up against Steph’s perfect abs, letting him feel Klay getting hard.

“Oh,” Steph says, breathy, a shake in his voice. It makes something in Klay crack, that just this, wet skin on wet skin, can take Steph apart. And that Klay gets to be the first one to do it, the first person to drop to his knees for Steph, the first person to hear his disbelieving gasp, the first person whose name he says like a prayer.

He holds Steph’s hips in place, but he hardly needs to. Steph stays so still, one hand on Klay’s head, one hand on his shoulder. 

The water from the shower is running down Klay’s face, his back, in tantalizing rivulets down Steph’s skin. He chases one with his tongue and Steph shakes above him. Klay can hear his own heartbeat. 

Klay takes Steph into his mouth. 

“Oh my God,” Steph says, and it sounds obscene coming from him, sounds like blasphemy. Klay releases his hips, running one hand over and around Steph’s waist and down to his ass, encouraging him to fuck in deeper. With the other, he starts jerking himself off, slow and in time with Steph’s movements.

It’s so good thinks he might die from it. Steph’s letting go, his grip tightening in Klay’s hair, his thrusts deepening. It’s all Klay wants, his mind going quiet, nothing left in him but desire. His hand on his cock speeds up.

Without warning, Steph’s hips stutter and his hand clenches in Klay’s hair, the perfect edge of pain, as Steph comes in Klay’s mouth. 

Steph sinks down to the floor of the shower, his legs splayed around Klay. He reaches out and touches Klay’s mouth, runs his thumb across the lower curve of it. Klay sucks it into his mouth and Steph gasps, surging forward to kiss Klay over and over. Klay comes like that, gasping into Steph’s mouth, under the shower spray.

Steph sits back, tilting his face up into the shower spray. Klay slumps next to him. Steph’s smiling so wide it breaks Klay’s heart apart. Klay reaches out, resting his hand on Steph’s thigh, not ready to let go of him yet.

\---

A game against Minnesota, a flight to San Antonio, a game against the Spurs, a flight to Memphis. The road trip falls into a familiar rhythm: breakfast, a quick session with his trainer, tape review. Steph sits next to him, slides his foot up against Klay’s, a half-smile on his face even as he’s studying defensive rotations. Afterwards, Steph grabs him, and they end up in Klay’s room, making out slow and sweet until they drift off together.

Klay tries to stay focused and locked in, determined to play better. But it’s impossible. This long on the road and everyone’s tired, their concentration starting to go. But when Klay thinks of going home, it’s a shot of adrenaline so strong he can feel his hands shaking. 

He isn’t ready. How could he be. Every time Steph pulls him in for a kiss, with growing confidence, Klay feels himself pulling apart, wanting so much. He holds Steph too hard, as though that will let Klay keep him. If he had a strategy, it’s gone; any part of himself he was trying to save, he’s handed over. 

He plays like shit against the Wolves but they win. In San Antonio, Coach Jackson puts him on Tony Parker, his eyes sliding past Steph, sitting next to Klay, when he gives out the assignments. 

“Let’s see what you can do, Thompson,” Coach says. Parker hangs a double-double on him, 18 points, ten assists. Afterwards, Klay sits alone in the locker room, eyes shut, icing both his knees. In the pre-game interviews, Jackson had called him and Steph the best backcourt in basketball, again. 

They fly straight to Memphis from the stadium. Klay watches tape on his iPad. Steph sits next to him. At one point, just after take-off, he’d reached out for Klay, half-smile on his face, but Klay had shaken his head, and Steph had turned away, left him to it.

Klay sleeps late in Memphis. They don’t get a day off, tip-off’s at 7. He barely makes it to the video session. Draymond hands him a cup of coffee when he sits down. Klay takes a sip before he realizes it’s Draymond’s, heavy on the cream and sugar.

“Fuck, that’s nasty,” he says, trying to hand it back.

“You need it more than I do,” Draymond says. “You look like ass.”

“Thanks,” Klay takes another sip. Steph’s on the other side of the table, freshly showered and well-rested, glowing. 

“Focus, everyone,” the assistant says. “This time tomorrow you’ll be home.” Steph looks up and meets Klay’s eyes, smirk on his lips, as the coach turns off the lights, bringing game tape up from Memphis’s game against the Pelicans, and the chatter dies down. The twisting cramp in Klay’s gut has nothing to do with Draymond’s terrible taste in coffee.

\---

Coach sits Klay after he’s only played twenty-five minutes, giving Klay plenty of time on the sidelines, sweat cooling on him, to think about how his game and his life are both falling apart. Steph sits for a few minutes, drinks Gatorade out of a paper cup and then chews on the rim. He has bruises coming in his arms, finger prints. Tony Allen’s been guarding him and the ref isn’t calling the contact. He darts a look over at Klay, then back towards the floor. Then Coach calls his name, and he stands, resting his hand on Klay’s shoulder for a second, shooter’s calluses and deceptive strength. He squeezes once, and Klay’s eyes follow him out onto the court.

Klay’s dad texts him after the game, on their way to the airport. _U were minus 20 Tonite!!!!!!!!!What’s up?_

 _Just tired_ he texts. _Long road trip_. Klay leans back, shutting his eyes. There’s never enough room on these buses for his legs. His quads are cramping, but the ache in his chest is worse.

His phone buzzes. _U gotta keep ur focus!!!_ At the front of the bus, Klay can see Steph, the street lights catching on the planes of his face, running gentle along his skin. For a second he seems haloed by the golden, artificial light. 

_Yeah_ , he texts back.

\---

Stepping off the plane and breathing in the cold, fog- and salt-laced air of the Bay is a relief. Klay just wants to go home and collapse into his bed, sleep until his mind stops buzzing. He wants more dangerous things than that, Steph in his bed, the warm press of skin on skin.

He’s heading out to his car when Steph grabs his arm. Klay pops out an ear bud, turning into the contact.

“Hey,” he says. “I saved you a seat on the plane.” 

“Sorry,” Klay says. “I was kinda wiped out.” 

Steph’s exhausted: in matching grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt, the thin skin under his eyes dark and bruised. 

“Um,” he says, looking over his shoulder. None of their teammates are near them, and the airport is empty, but Steph still drops his voice, blushing. “Can I come home with you?” 

It’s like he’s taken his fist and reached into Klay’s chest and pulled. He can’t speak, no words coming over the pounding of his pulse. The smile that’s always sitting on the edge of Steph’s lips, just waiting to bloom, fades away, and his looks down at his feet. “Or, um.”

“Yeah,” Klay says, and Steph looks back up at him, an impossible smile, an impossible feeling. “You’ll have to help me find my car though.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Steph says, bumping his shoulder against Klay’s, once, twice, before he reaches his arm around Klay’s waist, tucking himself against Klay, and Klay has no option but to throw his arm over Steph’s slim, strong shoulders and hold him close.

\---

Steph dozes in the passenger seat on the ride up into the hill. At the long red lights, Klay gives himself over to looking at him. He still can’t believe he’s doing this, that Steph’s let Klay touch him even once. He drives them up into the hills, careful and quiet. He reaches out just once to rest his hand on Steph’s thigh, feeling impossibly tender, just to remind himself that this is real. Steph stirs, just a little, under his touch.

At his house, Steph leans uselessly against his side and Klay fumbles with his keys. Rocco gives a few sleepy barks, and when Klay gets the door open, he happily weaves between the two of them, making Steph stumble.

“Ok, ok, calm down buddy,” Klay says, sitting down on the floor so that Rocco can greet him properly. Rocco’s overcome with joy, can’t decide if he wants to kiss Klay or jump on Steph. 

“Sorry about him,” Klay apologizes. “He gets excited.”

“It’s ok,” Steph says, scratching behind Rocco’s ears but looking at Klay. “I think he’s cute.” Klay fumbles his keys back into his pocket, his heart rate picking up again. 

Klay finally gets Rocco to calm down, curled back up on his bed in the kitchen. Klay checks to make sure the dog sitter left water in his bowl before she left and gives him a kiss on his soft head. 

“Good luck, dad,” he says to himself softly, in Rocco’s made-up dog voice.

“Thanks, bud,” he tells Rocco, and Rocco gently huffs and falls asleep. 

Steph trails Klay to his bedroom. He didn’t make the bed before they left for the trip and there’s a pile of dirty laundry on his floor.

“Bedtime?” Klay asks, not able to look at Steph head-on, in his bedroom, past midnight, just on the edge of sleep.

“Gonna brush my teeth first,” Steph says, and then kisses Klay, gently. “You’re gross, you know that?” 

“Yeah,” Klay says, dumbfounded. “I am.” He watches Steph walk into his bathroom, the curve of his ass in his sweats, his easy walk. It’s overwhelming, everything Klay’s ever wanted in one contained body, in the way Steph looks over his shoulder at Klay and smirks at Klay watching him. He has to grip his own thighs to keep from following Steph to the bathroom, pressing up up against the wall, fucking him. Has to bite his tongue against the pain of losing him.

“I’m gonna use your toothbrush,” Steph calls, from the bathroom. 

“Do that,” Klay says.

\---

Klay doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, hyper-aware of Steph next to him, of what’s coming, of having Steph and losing him. But he’s exhausted from the road, and the familiarity of his own bed and of Steph’s even, beloved breath quiet his thoughts until he slips easily under.

He wakes up to Steph, leaning against the headboard, drinking coffee. He’s freshly showered, wearing an old Washington State shirt and pair of briefs.

“Morning,” Steph says. Klay pushes himself up, grabbing the coffee out of Steph’s hands. He takes a long sip; fortunately, seems like Steph takes his coffee black, like Klay does. 

“I let the dog out,” Steph says. One of Steph’s hands is clenching and unclenching in the sheets. Klay goes hot and cold at once, thinking about Steph thinking about him. Thinking about pushing Steph back against his mattress. Thinking about the end of all of this.

“How long you been up for?” Klay asks. 

Steph shrugs. “Like an hour ago,” he says. “Couldn’t get back to sleep.” 

“Nervous?” Klay tries to joke.

Steph takes the coffee cup back, their fingers brushing. He’s silent as he takes a sip. Klay’s palms are sweaty.

“Not really,” Steph says. “Is that weird?” He’s looking at Klay, and his eyes are so warm, little crinkles around the edges of them, his smile just starting. His tongue darts out of his mouth, licking the corner of his lips, then back in again. 

“No idea,” Klay says. “I don’t have like, good analytics on all this.” 

Steph laughs, honest and genuine. He leans over and puts the coffee cup on Klay’s bedside table. 

“Want to expand that data set?” Steph asks.

“Really?” Klay says, “that’s the line you’re going with? You think that’ll work on me?” 

“Honestly,” Steph says, reaching for him, “I do.” 

Klay hoped that touching Steph would settle him, but when they kiss, he can feel the bitter taste of adrenaline in the back of his throat. His hands are pulling Steph in close, closer, but they’re shaking. Steph gasps into his mouth, opening up for him so sweet and easy, so dangerously. 

They end up half-horizontal, Steph draped over Klay. There’s sunlight streaming in through the windows, distant bird song, it all seems perfect. They kiss languorously, except for how Klay grips Steph too tight, keeps biting at his lips, as though if Klay claimed him, Klay could keep him. Steph doesn’t seem to mind, rocking his hips forward against Klay’s thigh. 

Klay’s been half-hard since he woke up, knowing that Steph was awake, waiting for Klay to wake up, waiting to get fucked. But with Steph moving against him, so beautiful and strong, he’s hard and hopeless. Steph rocks into him with more urgency and Klay presses back into him, but breaks the kiss.

“You sure about this?” Klay asks. 

“Mhm,” Steph makes a pleased noise into Klay’s neck. He presses a biting kiss to the skin just above Klay’s collarbone, making another pleased noise and rubbing more determinedly against Klay. He’s going to give himself beard burn, Klay thinks distantly. 

“You and your oral fixation,” Klay says, dazed, before he remembers to collect himself.

“Because I only get one shot at this,” Klay manages, his hands skimming down Steph’s sides, stilling his hips. “So you know, lot of pressure for me.” 

Steph pulls back, his cheeks pink and his pupils blown wide. His lips are soft and spit-slick. Klay can barely breathe with fear and desire. 

“Really don’t care,” Steph says. “I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for your dick.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Klay says, losing the clever answer he should have in kissing Steph again and again.

After that, Steph won’t break the kiss long enough for Klay to pull his shirt off, so Klay rucks it up as high as he can with one hand, running his other hand up and down Steph’s thighs. Steph’s locked in, gasping into Klay’s mouth. His hands are moving ceaselessly, thumbing over Klay’s ribs, brushing across his nipples, sliding around his waist and further back.

Suddenly, Klay wants Steph inside him so badly he thinks he’ll die from it. A disastrous intimacy. 

“Hey,” he says, pushing back from Steph just slightly, their foreheads still pressed together. “Change of plans? Fuck me?” 

Steph gasps, nodding and trying to kiss him at the same time. “You’ll? I don’t,” another kiss, “exactly know what I’m doing.”

“I got you,” Klay says, finally pulling off Steph’s shirt, running his knuckles along the bumps in Steph’s spine. 

Steph opens him up slowly, his eyes darting from Klay’s face to where his fingers are fucking into Klay and then back up again. Klay has a loose hand on wrapped around Steph’s wrist, rubbing his thumb against the corded tendons there. When Steph moves, cautiously, it lights something up inside Klay and he squeezes down.

“Klay,” Steph breathes, “Klay. It’s good?”

Klay nods, not trusting his voice. The edges of his control are fracturing. It feels too good, his muscles going weak and his legs falling to either side. He closes his eyes for a long second, rocking back up into Steph’s touch, his perfect fingers. 

“Please,” he says. 

Steph’s shaking as he pushes in, in stops and starts. Inside Klay, he holds still, his arms framing Klay’s face. Steph drops his head, eyes closed, biting his lip. Klay leans up to kiss his mouth open, and Steph’s lips part. 

“Oh my God,” Steph says. He thrusts in just a little, no rhythm at all, and gasps again, leaning down for more clumsy kisses. Klay gets a hand on his own dick, his other hand cupping the back of Steph’s neck, thumb stroking along the bounding pulse of Steph’s carotid.

Neither of them last long, Steph moving inside him with growing confidence, Klay rocking up to meet him, angling himself so that Steph lights him up with every stroke. His hand speeds up, incapable of making it last, desperately chasing the heat inside him. The kiss is just a press of mouths when Steph, hips stuttering, comes first, inside Klay. It punches through Klay, raw emotion and need, and he follows Steph over the edge.

Steph collapses on top of him, a mess between them. Klay tucks himself into Steph as much as possible, eyes squeezed shut, their legs tangled together. _Don’t go_ , he thinks, trying to transmit the hopeless wish into Steph’s sinew and nerves and bone, every vital part of him. 

Somewhere distant, he can hear Rocco barking. 

“Fuck,” Klay says. His whole body feels unstable, rung out. “I’m not sure I can walk right now.”

Steph snorts with laughter and Klay can feel it through him. “Hard to stay humble with you around.”

“Shut up,” Klay says, kissing Steph’s collarbone. He doesn’t want to move, to lose this. “It has nothing to do with you.” 

“Well,” Steph says, “next time, you can try to top that.” 

“Top you, you mean,” Klay says, the words out of him before he has time to process what Steph said.

“Ha ha,” Steph says, and incredibly, he’s blushing. He doesn’t even try to hide it, just beams at Klay, high on endorphins. 

“Next time?” Klay asks, carefully, when he can trust himself to keep his voice level. 

“Yeah,” Steph says, rolling off of Klay onto the bed, grinning up at the ceiling, naked and unselfconscious, his stomach covered in Klay’s come. “Should be good.”

“Presumptuous of you,” Klay says, feeling exposed. He grabs a discarded shirt and wipes himself off, pulling the comforter over himself. He wishes Steph were still on top of him, holding him, or that he could hold Steph, curl around the warm heart of him. The afterglow’s receding brutally. 

Rocco barks again, closer this time. He must want his breakfast. Klay should get up and take care of him but he can’t make himself. 

“You’re,” Steph rolls over to face Klay. “You’re serious?” The joy’s gone from his face, a cloud over the sun. 

“I mean,” Klay says, and he can’t look at Steph because if he looks at Steph he’ll beg. He can still feel the stretch from Steph inside him. “You don’t exactly need me anymore.” 

“What?” Steph sits up. “How could I not need you? How could I do anything without you?”

“Not in the fucking backcourt,” Klay says, hating himself, hating that he has to explain this, hating that Steph won’t just leave, hating that Steph is about it leave. “I mean, now you and Dray and HB can go out and, whatever.”

“Why would I? What?” Steph stutters. “Klay.” He reaches out and Klay flinches away from him. 

“I can’t just keep fucking you,” Klay says. “It’s not.” His voice breaks. “It’s not fair to me.” 

“How is it not fair?” Steph’s hand is resting so close to Klay’s shoulder, his fingers inching towards contact, still. His voice is wet. “Is it not good for you?” Klay can hear a hitch in his breath. 

“Of course it’s good,” Klay says. He shuts his eyes against the sharp prickle of tears. His shoulders are tight, drawn in on himself. “That’s the fucking problem.” 

“I don’t understand,” Steph sounds desperate and Klay can’t do this, can’t survive this. “Are you breaking up with me?

“We were never together,” Klay says, bitter. “It was.” He can’t say _just sex_ because it wasn’t, God. He might throw up.

“I thought we were,” Steph says, soft. “My mistake.” It’s like he’s trying to take the blame for a bad foul, but he can’t manage it, his voice cracking on him. Klay cracks with it. “I’ll go.” 

“No,” Klay reaches out for him, hope like blood in his mouth. He grabs for Steph’s hand, interlacing their fingers. Steph holds himself still. “Stay.” 

“I’m not going to just fuck around with you,” Steph says, with that same half-controlled softness. “You have to get that.” Klay feels like his heart is beating out of his chest.

“I know,” Klay presses a kiss to the tips of Steph’s fingers, then to his palm. “I’m an idiot. However you want me, I.” Steph squeezes Klay’s hand back and Klay can hardly breath with it. “I need you.”

“Klay, look at me.” Klay opens his eyes and there’s Steph, his lips still kiss-bitten, his eyes locked on Klay, pleading. “Please, just tell me.” Klay can’t look away from him, can’t let go of his hand, can’t pay the price of losing him, can’t lie anymore.

“I’m in love with you,” Klay says, words rushed, his body empty of everything but that fear and wonder and sun-lit need.

“Oh,” Steph says, and kisses Klay, sharp with teeth, grabbing tight onto Klay’s shoulders. “Oh,” he says again, and the kiss goes deeper, fierce, desperate. Klay pulls Steph close, closer, wanting to cover Steph and be covered. Any space between them is unendurable, and Steph curls over him, thighs tight against Klay’s, hands clutching each other, their hearts beating in time. 

“So, we are dating,” Steph says, a few minutes later, panting and half-hard again, on top of Klay.

“If you feed the dog,” Klay says, grinning, no need to hide it.

Steph whacks Klay with a pillow, grabbing an oversized, dirty shirt off the floor. “Only because you can’t walk right now.” 

“Thanks, honey,” Klay calls and Steph sticks his tongue out, opening the door to the bedroom. Rocco comes bounding in, jumping up onto Klay’s bed. Steph, laughing, topples down on the bed, limbs tangled up with Klay’s.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com) for pushing me to finish and making this one billion times better and to [Lee](http://lilah80.tumblr.com) for her help fixing the structure even though she barely knows who these people are. 
> 
> thanks also to basketball reference dot com for their very complete game reports on the Warriors' 2013 - 2014 season, which they probably did not anticipate would be used in this way. the basketball details are mostly accurate; I changed a few little things for the narrative. 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


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